Unless otherwise *noted these short stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9859361-0-5
Copyright 2012 by T.K. Richardson/Chamberton Publishing
Copyright to each story remains with the respective author
Book cover by Wicked Cover Designs
Stock art © Chorazin
Published in the Unites States of America. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. Cover and/or contents may not be reproduced without the express written permission of the publisher.
∼A Golden Light Anthology Series∼
Lamplight
A Golden Light Anthology
Christian and Inspirational Short Stories and Poems
Gaslight
A Golden Light Anthology
Historical Short Stories
Nightlight
A Golden Light Anthology
Children’s Short Stories and Poems
Limelight
A Golden Light Anthology
Science Fiction and Fantasy Short Stories
Spotlight
A Golden Light Anthology
Young Adult Short Stories
Lamplight
A Golden Light Anthology
Lamplight: A Golden Light Anthology illuminates Biblical truths and offers hope. Only the Bible is ‘a lamp unto your feet and a light for your path’, but this anthology, filled with inspirational short stories and poems, may help along the way.
Authors Seth D. Clarke, David Andrews, Larissa Hinton, Lynda Lee Schab, Rebecca Grubb, Linda Tracy Miller, Delores Liesner, and J.R. Bingham offer stories of loss and healing, of discovery and adoration, of life and inspiration. Their stories weave together like a tapestry of the human heart creating a beautiful picture of light and hope.
Step onto the path, take up your lamp, and follow the light with Lamplight: A Golden Light Anthology.
Contents
Before the Rooster Crows by Seth D. Clarke
At Your Feet by David Andrews
Proverbs 7 by Larissa Hinton
Hello…Goodbye by Lynda Lee Schab
Beautiful Battle by David Andrews
God Is Always by Rebecca Grubb
Jeremiah 12 by Larissa Hinton
Morning Musings by Linda Tracy Miller
Beautiful Mystery by David Andrews
Gift of Grace by Delores Liesner
The Beach by David Andrews
Closing by J.R. Bingham
Benediction
Before the Rooster Crows
By Seth D. Clarke
It’s a moment I’ll never forget. How could I? It was the defining moment of my life, an instant imprinted indelibly on the fabric of my soul. If I close my eyes, even now, a lifetime later, sitting with aching joints waiting for guards to come and carry me to my own cross, I can see it all unfold: torchlight flickers, the hobnailed boots of the soldiers echo as they tramp through Caiaphas’ house…I follow Him at a distance, unwilling or unable to accept what is happening. He foretold it, I know, but seeing it happen…it’s unreal. My heart is beating like a Roman galley drum, my throat is tight with fear, I am breathless; if they know I am one His followers, they might take me too, do to me what they are doing to Him…my flesh shivers at the thought of the scourge tips ripping my flesh. I cannot bear that thought, but neither can I leave Him. So I follow, hoping they don’t ask too many questions.
It was only three years or so, but they changed me completely. I was a fisherman, simple, strong, and stubborn. I took my boat out in the early morning, when dawn’s fingers were just brushing the horizon, threw my net and hauled it in, again and again until my muscles ached and burned, and when I couldn’t take the strain anymore, I set my teeth and hauled harder, refused to stop or slow until the sun lowered itself into the sea. I had a family to provide for, and if I caught no fish, they didn’t eat. I worked the nets, day in, day out, never considering anything else. What else was there? I had my family, a warm home, a trade I knew.
Then He came.
He strode across the beach, sandals crunching in the sand. The net went slack in my hand, making my brother Andrew grunt in irritation. I didn’t care. The man walking towards us on the beach…he was captivating, but I couldn’t explain why. I straightened, lifted a hand to shade my eyes from the sun, watched Him approach. Andrew eventually stood up as well and took note of Him. The net dropped to the deck, and the only sound was the wind rippling the sail, fish tails slapping wet wood. He stopped, waves licking at his toes and the hem of his robe. He called out to us, a hand extended in invitation, “Come, follow me!” His voice was deep and rich, powerful and commanding and gentle. “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” The words were strange. We were fishermen, we fished for fish, not people. How could one catch men in a net? I glanced at Andrew, met his gaze for the briefest of moments. Andrew shrugged noncommittally. I looked back to Him, standing at the water’s edge, waiting, as if He knew I would go with Him.
The water was cold and jarring in the hot air. I swam until my feet touched lake bottom, waded ashore, donned my robes. He watched me, His eyes a brown that was almost golden, like sunlight through amber; His eyes were the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. His features were the ordinary, rough-hewn planes and angles of a Jew from the back-end of nowhere. His hands were calloused like a carpenter’s, His hair and beard dark and tangled and thick. His robes were coarse, his sandals old and battered from years of wear. Oh, but His eyes. They were luminous, warm and kind. I stood before Him dripping wet and breathless from my swim, and He stared into my soul, into my heart of hearts, my deepest, secret places, and He knew me intimately. I sensed something emanating from Him, a deep, thrumming, subtle power that seemed woven into His very essence…even now I cannot express in human words what it was like to meet His gaze. It is impossible, I think. Something ineffable stared out from His eyes, something beyond human ken; meeting His gaze is like staring up at the star-washed sky with the infinite millions of stars, like counting the grains of sand, like following the path of a wave across the trackless sea. Staring into His eyes is to stare full into the face of Yahweh. It is terrifying, and yet comforting. He saw the understanding dawning in me, smiled a kind and loving smile which sent a blaze of warmth and joy thrilling through me. He drew me into an embrace. He might have whispered, “you are mine,” or I may have heard it in my mind…I cannot say for sure. I stood in awe, rooted to the sand of the beach, Andrew next to me now, equally transfixed.
I knew it, then: this was the Messiah.
That began a three-year odyssey with Him, a lifetime of miracles and joy and pain and wonder packed into three short years. Every day spent with Him was to learn, was to be challenged, every time He looked at you, each slightest glance seared through you, laid bare your every thought and secret and fear and desire and worry; He knew your pride, knew your weakness, knew how to speak to you so gently and softly and powerfully that you would lay at His feet your very soul, could you but grasp it in two calloused hands.
Then, one day, all changed. We were sitting around a table, as we thirteen always did. It was Passover. We broke bread, shared wine, talked and laughed…but we all could feel a tension in the air. It exuded from the Iscariot, Judas. I always had a bad feeling about Judas. He was at the farthest end, near a window, morose and brooding, staring out at the olive trees in the distance, a hot breeze wafting in and fluttering his thick, curling, black hair and trimmed, oiled beard.
Then, words from Him that chilled us all to the bone: “This is my body, which is given for you,” holding aloft a loaf of bread, which He broke in two, with solemnity and ceremony. And then, after we had all eaten from the bread, He poured a draught of wine into our cups, and
said, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.” We drank the wine, stealing glances at each other, asking silently what this all meant. He had spoken before of His death, and we tried to ignore it, tried to pretend that maybe He was wrong, just this once, just about this. Him, die? Please, Yahweh, do not let that day come. He has become a part of us, our Rabbi, our Lord, our friend, our brother, our father…
“But behold,” He said slowly, looking into each of our eyes, coming at last to linger upon Judas, “The hand of him who betrays me is with me on the table.” We knew, then, that it was real, and that one of us would betray Him to his death.
Later, when the food and wine was all exhausted and we sat on the slopes of the Mount of Olives singing hymns, He turned to me and pierced me with His eyes like luminous pools of shekinah glory and said, “Simon, Simon, behold, Satan has demanded to have you, that he may sift you like wheat, but I have prayed for you that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned again, strengthen your brothers.” His words made my hands shake and turned my stomach into a pit of stone.
“Lord!” I protested. “I am ready to go with you both to prison and to death.” He had called me, made me anew. I knew then, in that moment, that I would, truly, go anywhere He went, suffer what He suffered. He was the prophesied Messiah…how could I do anything else?
But He looked at me, sadness heavy in His eyes, and said, “I tell you, Peter, the rooster will not crow this day until you deny three times that you know me.” I stared at Him in disbelief, a hollow in my gut, a tremble in my hands. Suddenly, after three years, all was falling apart. I? Deny Him? I vehemently affirmed my willingness to follow Him even unto death, and my words were echoed by the others. But the seed had been planted, and the doubt was there, in the deepest corner of myself. Would I, when the time came, be faithful? Little did I know then how soon would my words be tested.
We went to one of His favorite places to pray, the Garden of Gethsemane. The moon shone high and full, the night air was warm and still. As we walked, I could sense that His spirit was troubled, and I wished I could do something to comfort Him, He who had done so much for so many. He left me with James and John, those wild, thunder-voiced men, left us beneath a spreading tree and went off by Himself to pray as He so often did. We three sat and waited, prayed, conversed…and fell asleep. James, John, and I had sat here waiting for Him a hundred times over the years, all night, sometimes. He could pray for hours without rising from His knees, He could pray from sunset to moonrise through to dawn, without ceasing or tiring. How could we know that this night would be any different? I awoke to His touch on my shoulder. “Simon? Are you asleep?” He asked, pouring guilt on me. I should have known, should have stayed awake, for Him. “Could you not watch one hour? Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” And He went again to pray, leaving us to think on His words. How right He was. We struggled and prayed and fought sleep, but our eyes seemed weighted by anchors, slid inexorably downwards. We nodded off mid-prayer, nudged each other, stood and walked around, slapped our arms, but to no avail. He woke us again, and this time gave us a look which spoke louder than any words. We hung our heads in shame, and He returned to pray, a third time. As He departed, I noticed smears of blood on His brow, as if He had sweat drops of blood rather than salt. This time, we stayed awake mere moments before succumbing to sleep.
“Are you still sleeping and taking your rest?” He asked, anger in his voice this time. He sighed deeply, wiped his brow, turned and gazed into the distance, listening to some voice only He could hear.
“It is enough. The hour has come. The Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us be going.” Even as He spoke the words, Judas crested the hill with a crowd wielding torches and swords and clubs. “See? My betrayer is at hand.” It is a blur, now, a haze of action. The one thing I remember, vividly, is Judas embracing Him, kissing His sweat-sheened cheek. The look He gave Judas was too complex for words, contained too many emotions to be counted or named; foremost, love, and forgiveness mingled in that reproachful, tender, piercing gaze so fraught with the divine glory shining from his eyes, his very pores.
How dare he? A filthy sicarii, a traitor, a selfish coward, betrays the Messiah, the Promised One, with a kiss? That moment…I see it…Judas at the head of the blood-hungry mob, clean, soft hands gripping His shoulders, lips pale and trembling pressed to His left cheek, then His right, slow and exaggerated…Rabbi, the Messiah, He knew…He clutched Judas’s arms for a moment and stared into his eyes, forgiving him, loving him, weeping for him, seeing his death. Judas kissed Him, and the mob went wild.
They seized Him. I saw red, then.
I drew my sword, hacked off the ear of someone in the crowd, sending a spray of blood into the air. Touching the wound with His fingertips, He healed the servant’s ear. Words were exchanged, and they led Him away to the high priest. As they departed, I saw one of them toss a small sack to Judas which clinked when he caught it. Judas saw me watching him. He must have seen the hatred in my stare, for the traitor put a hand to his sword, as if to be ready, should I attack him. I would have, I think, but for the lingering memory of His last words to me: “Put your sword into its sheath; shall I not drink the cup that the Father has given me?” So Judas turned and slunk away like a frightened dog. I never saw him again, but I heard that they later found him, hung by his own hand from a withered olive tree, his robes soiled, his face tortured and twisted in death and remorse, swinging in the hot winds of Gehenna.
John and I followed them at a distance. With every step I took, I felt my courage, my fierce determination of just a few hours ago draining away. They led Him, hands bound up painfully behind His back, to Annas, and then to Caiaphas, and it was he who questioned Him. John followed further than I dared, being known to the high priest. I might have gone with him, into the interior court where Caiaphas heard trials of the people, but my courage failed me. I stood outside the door, listening to the murmur of voices just beyond the iron-bound wood.
Then it came, that fateful moment. The door squealed open, revealing the pretty face of a servant girl. She motioned for me to enter into the court and led me to a charcoal fire, around which stood a handful of crest-helmeted officers and high-placed servants. The girl glanced over at the dais, where He stood, hands still bound, surrounded by soldiers, then looked quizzically at me. “You are not one of this man’s disciples, are you?” She asked me, gesturing at Him. Panic swallowed me, overwhelmed me. I was surrounded by the very men seeking to kill Him, the men who had schemed and plotted for His life…how do I answer? If I say that I am, will they not take me as well? Will they not beat me with their hard fists, kick me with their boots, whip me with their scourges? My flesh crawled, and the truth stuck in my throat.
“I am not.” I heard the words drop from my lips like stones. He turned His head, just then, and looked directly at me. Shame burned in me, but not with more heat than did fear. The crowd around the brazier was examining me now. One of them said, “This man is one of them,” gesturing at John and at Yeshua.
“No, I am not!” The flickering flames of anger, always so hot, so close within me, grew unbearable. Could they not just let it go? I was caught up by my denial, now, and I could not go back. Now a third man, an officer who had been with those that arrested Yeshua, looked at me carefully, intently.
“This man was with them, I am certain,” he said to his friends gathered around, “for he too is a Galilean.”
I cursed, saying, “I do not know what you are talking about!” At the very moment that the words came from my lips I heard a rooster crow with its loud voice, three times. The blood drained from my face, and my strength fled. I collapsed backwards against a pillar, remembering His words, “before the rooster crows this day…”
Far across the court Caiaphas’ guards were questioning Him, striking Him. When the rooster crowed, He turned His head and met my eyes once more, unb
linking through the rivulets of blood that streamed down his face. Images from our years together flashed through me, striking me with lightning force:
Gaiety and joy of a wedding, dancing, laughing, wine by the barrel, tables of food, the radiant bride and glowing groom whirling around each other…a servant whispering in the ear of the father of the bride, gesturing at a wine barrel…Yeshua’s mother, sweet young Mary telling Him that they had run out wine, Yeshua giving gentle instructions…the stunned surprise when the master of the feast tasted the wine…
Baptizing with His wild-eyed cousin John…
Crossing through Samaria, breaking custom and tradition, the woman of ill-repute at the well at mid-day and the baffling discussion of “living water” and then the crowds of Samaritans milling around Him and seeking the truth with such fervency…
The uncountable thousands of ill and lame that came to Him day in and day out, so trusting, so believing…all healed…men lame since birth standing up and walking away, blind men seeing, dancing and laughing at the beauty of the world around them, lepers casting off their rags and rejoining society…
Crowds of thousands being fed with a few loaves of bread and some fish…
The storm on the Sea of Galilee, rowing furiously with the others, we see a ghostly, radiant figure striding across the waves…our superstitious panic and terror boiling in us until His voice came to us across the water, strong and bold and reassuring…love and trust welling up inside me, stepping out over the side, Thomas clutching at my sleeve in disbelief as I step onto the surface of the water…it felt like the sand on the beach, shifting and slipping under my feet, but ultimately solid as long my eyes are fixed upon Him, His arms outstretched towards me. A thunderous crash of lightning stole my attention from His luminous face and drew it to the ten foot waves and wind-whipped rain pelting against my face and I began to slip beneath the waves. “Lord! Help me!” I cried out to Him.
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